


1969: Babylon

by usedtobebird



Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: 5+1 Things, By cielo77 who is da BOMB, Foot Fetish, Gay Sex, Kinda?, M/M, References to Depression, no beta we die like men, references to wwii, you're welcome Tarantino, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 22:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20245147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usedtobebird/pseuds/usedtobebird
Summary: Cliff's spent a lot of time in the deeper places of the world - places where they usually bury people. Places like 10 miles north of Munich (Dachau), places like Tijuana where his mom died, places like Alabama swamps where boys trained to die.Then he met Rick. Nothing changed much, but everything did.(A character study, of sorts.)(also a 5+1 thing about love)





	1969: Babylon

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [1969: 巴比倫](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24179185) by [cielo77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cielo77/pseuds/cielo77)

> I looked up so many old Westerns y’all, you don’t understand
> 
> Tarantino movies make me think. This one had such rich characterization in such small ways that I can’t help but applaud everyone in that film’s genius.
> 
> Also my little gremlin self was rubbing its hands together with glee because those two boys were fuckin' married. 
> 
> (lots of notes at the end on historical bits as you please)  
(never written about a foot thing tho lemme know how I did)

* * *

0: (a) beginning 

* * *

Those first few weeks back ‘stateside, Cliff hadn’t slept for a week. 

Home had been just – too much. Too much color for a man who’d been defined by a conflict wreathed in gray, olive drab, and startling slashes of blood. Here, the sun shone. Here, people smiled. Here, people didn’t have deep scars marking how many times they should have died. Cliff had felt frozen in peacetime; his trigger finger had found itself hanging in his pockets, heavy like steel, every time he went outside. So he had stopped going outside.

It had also been too damn quiet. A soldier’s worst enemy was silence because silence informed you of little but paranoia. Having been shut in some bolt-hole on the border not too far from Tijuana (because god help him if he went home), Cliff had made the patriotic decision to chain-smoke and subsist on beer for as long as humanly possible (which is about a week). Cliff doesn’t remember much from that liminal space, the transition from hellscape to what should have been home feeling like a fever. He thinks he remembers spilling warm beer on the rainbow of his decorated uniform around when the toilet had stopped flushing. People hailed him as a hero simply for the unlucky fact that, on his shortest-stick patrol, he had stumbled upon Dachau.

One thing Cliff most demonstrably remembers is the United States government had elected to give him a television set, which was simple enough to operate even when piss-blind – perhaps the VA realized that the dough boys were going to need multiple drinks after coming home from kicking Hitler’s ass and an occupied drunk was better than a bored one. 

Cliff remembers this TV because it had been blessedly monochrome, depicting the world as it is: gray. Color images might have dazzled the world, but Cliff had had his fill of the damn world and wanted nothing more than to soak in alcoholic fantasies of simplicity: good versus evil. Cliff remembers this TV because it had probably saved his life.

His favorite had been the westerns. Fantastical epics of underdogs willing to sell their souls for gold and glory, where the characters thought their enemy was the miserable experience of nature, but in actuality was just the rat that is mankind. Watching Humphrey Bogart’s face looking wan and hunted, accented by sweet music that just didn’t highlight moments of pure human misery in reality, had been – oddly, exactly what he’d needed. Cliff had seen a mirror in the silver screen. After falling asleep through _The Treasure of the Sierra Madre_ for the nth time, he’d had a yeasty dream (fueled by a pickling liver no doubt) about himself, astride a cream horse (such a soft color, cream), tipping his ridiculous 10 gallon hat to a man with soft brown eyes who smiled at him. There were colors here, but they were soft. Sweet, even.

Cliff had woken up, sober for the first time in days, and through the pounding hangover that he wished had dropped him dead thought – _Hollywood. Why the hell hot?_

So, he had dropped a note to the Hispanic lady who wrapped ribbons in her hair and _tsk_’d at him every time he’d left his humble rathole but had also left him tamales outside his door, packed his bag, and hitchhiked across the country to California. Maybe two weeks after walking down Sunset Plaza, he’d gotten his first gig jumping off horses onto trains and shit. Two days after he’d shocked the industry by not only surviving every major stunt nobody else had attempted, but _rocking_ it, he locked eyes with Rick Dalton.

The rest, as they say, is history.

* * *

1: first in love

* * *

Cliff found himself being dragged into consciousness with the only formulated thought in his head being: _must be Tuesday._

“God fuckin’ damnit,” Rick grumbled from – somewhere. Cliff’s head was too busy being buried under a pillow that smelled like cornchips to be bothered, but then Rick inevtitably tripped over the greyhound doorstop hewn from soapstone that Cliff gave his partner a look for every time he smashed a toe on it, a crash sounded, and Cliff sighed as Rick’s soft blasphemes became a howl.

“Well, a good mornin’ to you,” Cliff groaned as he pushed up to see over the couch to muzzily survey his best friend. “What the hell are you doin’?”

Rick was lying facedown on the Persian carpet, silk bathrobe (which he insisted was a smoking jacket but – Cliff had met Hugh Hefner and had come to the conclusion that Rick’s was far too soft to qualify) akimbo, feet bare, hair a mess: the image of defeat. He said, muffled into the rug, “…lookin’ for my shoes.”

Cliff smiled because Rick couldn’t see it. He could tell Rick wasn’t crying – he didn’t hide when the tears fell. Cliff had always admired that about him.

The shoe saga had continued without interference: “… and I’m _q-quite_ sure that I, that I left my goddamn shoes by the, by the _goddamn _door last night so I’m – I’m fuckin’ goin’ to be late to see Norman and ruin everything, _again_—”

“Last night?” Cliff interrupted, sitting up.

“_Yes, _last – last _night_, I remember—”

“Last night where we went out and got piss drunk in public?” Cliff said. “Because your meeting with that Norman guy went so well?”

Rick was silent. Cliff’s smile widened because that was classic body-talk for _oh, goddamn it_ from Rick.

“I think you started howling at the moon around midnight and got chased out of the bar for that,” Cliff leaned against the squashy couch arm, rummaging in his pockets for a cigarette. “So then,” he fished one out of the pack and leaned into the familiar motions of lighting it, “you pulled your pants down and demanded _I_ howl at _your_—”

“Okay!” Rick launched himself upright, running a hand through his hair which changed colors in the morning sunlight. Cliff took a drag and watched his best friend flummox at himself for forgetting an entire 24-hour cycle because of a pair of misbegotten shoes. “How’d it go, by the way?” Cliff asked. 

Rick froze, looking at Cliff like he’d just spat in his coffee. “I – I uh, well. I’m pretty sure I pulled my pants up?”

He coughed out a smoky laugh. “Not with your moony ass, Ricky, with _Norman Macdonnell._”

Rick’s face could’ve launched a rocket to the moon, it was so red. “Oh,” he said quietly. “Right, uh. I got the part. Hey, I didn’t tell you!” He skittered into Cliff’s orbit, bare feet sidestepping the chaos they’d left upon their return to Rick’s apartment. “I forgot to mention – they need a double, so you’re in!”

Rick hadn’t forgotten to mention it. It had been the first thing he’d said after the bigshot meeting – and he’d said it many times after – despite it being the most pivotal moment for Rick’s dream of being a movie star. That had been the first time Cliff realized he loved him, which had been an opportune moment of discovery since he’d been surrounded by vast quantities of alcohol. You weren’t supposed to fall in love with your best friend if he, too, sported a dick.

“That’s great,” Cliff smiled and reminded with, “When do we start?”

Ricks’ glow dropped dramatically into his missing proverbial shoes. “Aw _shit_, Cliff, we start _today_ – where the, the _hell_ are my shoes—”

Cliff popped the cigarette back in his mouth and reached under the couch for Rick’s shoes to throw them at him before rising.

* * *

2: second in love

* * *

On one of Cliff’s rare days off not spent with Rick (who was off mooning at some Hollywood party Cliff hadn’t garnered an invitation to, due to his recent marital split), he’d bought a pack of cigarettes from the corner store off the beaten track from the walk of fame and hoofed his city. Couldn’t afford a car and Rick needed his gorgeous monstrosity of a steed to impress the Hollywood elite, but Cliff didn’t mind. He wore his sunglasses to mute the colors and learned how to love Los Angeles.

By his third cigarette, he passed the pastel-dancing Hare Krishnsa folks much closer to the brick wall of a building than he’d like. Harmless as a dancing Buddhist may be, he didn’t much enjoy having anyone in his space - and when the hell had there been so many of them traveling in packs? Cliff stuffed his hands in his pockets and ducked into an alleyway to avoid the smiles directed his way; he found a snarling bag of bones ready for him in the form of a mutt.

Brandy had been abandoned, probably the best thing that could’ve happened to her under the circumstances. Despite being starved, an ex-dog fighter, and sporting bloody polka dot flea bites, Brandy was a sight to behold. Cliff watched this mongrel of a creature lift her head up and proudly produce a squeaky bark.

Cliff held up his hands and lowered himself to the ground. He uttered soft susurrations of _shh_ and inched forward, cataloguing damage out of habit. _Broken rib maybe, something in the paw she’s favoring, pus in eye, nasty case of fleas, chewed ear._ She hadn’t moved. Her desperate growl faded as Cliff lowered an open palm to her head.

Cliff fell in love a second time to the tune of _Hare Krishna._ Praise god, indeed. She had put up little resistance to the idea of following Cliff, even before it’d been his idea to take her, and was shakily trotting after his ascent of Hollywood. She did not look disappointed with her decision.

Meanwhile, Cliff was as close to panicking as he’d show. He couldn’t think of anyone else to go to, so he’d brought her straight to Rick and crashed the party. Ignoring the red-clad bellhop’s horrified look at the mangled dog following him inside (tongue lolling), Cliff scanned the crowd of gleaming socialites, glitter gold and cherry-red lips, looking for a gleaming smile and a pair of scuffed shoes. Rick had been schmoozing with fat men in tuxedos and a tall blonde when Cliff found him. One look at Cliff’s face when he clapped him on the shoulder amidst bass-blasting Beatles had been plenty to cause Rick to abandon his drink, excuse himself from the company of Doris Day, and follow him outside to meet the new woman in his life.

“Shit, Cliff, she’s beautiful,” Rick said as he gently stroked her back after piling into the coupe. Cliff felt his heart produce something like a murmur and bit his lip, forcing the quiet ache in his chest down. “What’s her name?”

“Dunno,” Cliff said, fiddling with the keys.

Rick clucked at the somber dog’s face. “She’s gotta have a name. Now, let’s see…”

As they buckled themselves in, Cliff (behind the wheel because they’d both agreed a long time ago that he was the superior driver) asked: “Is – are you okay to leave this thing?” He thumbed behind himself at the Hollywood castle and put the car in gear. “I’m sorry if I disturbed your plans, Rick, I just - didn’t know what to do.”

Rick looked at him like he’d hatched yesterday. “This ain’t important. You are.”

Shit, Cliff thought. Why’s he gotta _say _shit like that?

Back at Rick’s snazzy new house on Cielo Drive that had next to nothing in it, Cliff in a borrowed pair of Rick’s shorts (having been soaked by giving the dog a bath), the two men studied the brown pit bull slobbering over a steak bone Rick had salvaged from last night’s dinner. Cliff was reexamining his sanity because the man he was in love with was discussing baby names with him. 

“I like Doris, y’know? Nice gal. Not a bad _name_, either.” Rick looked pointedly at Cliff who was staring at dog. Cliff blinked in response. He hadn’t touched a dog since the war, and here he’d gone and adopted the mangiest damn one this side of the hemisphere.

“You want another drink?” Rick asked suddenly, standing and moving rapidly toward the kitchen. “I want another drink.” Rick had never done well with silences.

“Sure,” Cliff called after him. “We finished the whisky, yeah?”

Rick had disappeared from view, dropping down to see into the depths of the liquor cabinet. “Aw, hell,” he called. “Yeah, we’re out. Out of everything, turns out. Except…” he twisted the bottle around to read its contents, “… brandy.”

The dog looked up. Cliff blinked at her. “Brandy?” he asked.

“Yep,” Rick called as the dog rose (slowly) to her feet and trundled over. Cliff reached out and placed a hand on her head, looking into her big, brown eyes. “You want some?” Rick asked.

“Okay,” Cliff said, lip quirked. “Brandy it is.”

Brandy sat at Cliff’s feet for the duration of the evening. Rick, having lapped Cliff in alcohol consumption about four times at the party, passed out well before Cliff even felt a tingle. Cliff lifted Rick’s body into his arms like he’d done a dozen times and tucked him into the giant bed in his empty bedroom. Brandy followed and stood watch at the door.

“She’ll be good for you,” Rick sighed as his head hit the pillow. Cliff hadn’t realized he was awake. “Brandy usually is.”

* * *

3: out of love (married)

* * *

Cliff wasn’t sure why he got married. It had just seemed like the thing to do at the time.

At first, Sherry had been a (second) bright ray of sunshine in Cliff’s otherwise drab life. His wife had worn yellow by default; a California babe knew how to accentuate herself in the sunlight. Piss and vinegar were all that came out of her mouth, bless her, but she looked like a sunbeam. Cliff had squinted in his smiles more because of her presence, but it wasn’t because he was happier.

She’d bounced on his cock willingly enough, which had been nice. Cliff wasn’t in the habit of being rude to a lady, especially one slapping his face while kindly squeezing his cock with her runny insides, but he had sometimes imagined if Rick was anything like her in bed. If his ass would jiggle when Cliff kissed it. If he’d bite back a whimper when Cliff eased a finger inside. He’d probably cry – and then Cliff imagined, as a beautiful naked woman pleasured herself on his dick and moaned _Clifford_ (but that wasn’t right, that wasn’t his name), kissing tears off of his best friend’s face. He’d never had so many Rick-fueled orgasms in his life after tying the knot, and that was _saying_ something.

Maybe six weeks into it, Sherry had shown him a pregnancy test. He hadn’t known at the time that a friend had pissed on it; he hadn’t thought people would lie about things like that. So, they got married. He was a soldier - duty was an intimately familiar concept to him.

Rick had been thrilled when Cliff had told him of the impending wedding, grabbing his hands and gushing about how happy he’d be. Cliff stared at his brown eyes and thought about the war – thought about sunlight. Most men had found it depressing, but Cliff had sought comfort where he could. The sun hadn’t blinded him, back in those hellish times. Watery and weak as it’d been, the light had warmed his fingertips enough to light a cigarette – not unlike Rick’s hands.

Sherry left him soon after. He wasn’t sure why she’d bothered to fake a pregnancy when she didn’t want him, anyway.

Or maybe she had. Maybe she’d seen his gaze leave hers during the ceremony, her resplendent white dress blindingly beautiful, to look at Rick’s teary face. Maybe she’d seen something she should’ve way too late when he helplessly gazed at a man when he said, “I do.”

Cliff remembers closing his eyes to kiss her because he’d wished her eyes weren’t blue.

Her parting gift had been gossip, damning in the world of stars. She’d spread the rumor of her own demise to hammer a nail in his coffin and Cliff couldn’t even find the energy to be mad about it because Rick had hugged him when he heard the news – they’d stopped touching each other after the wedding. Cliff had wrapped his arms around his best friend’s broad shoulders and had felt at ease for the first time since Sherry had smiled at him.

* * *

4: Rome

* * *

Face red as a cherry, Rick slammed a fourth martini down on the low marbled table and crowed, “When in Rome, baby!”

Cliff smiled at him in the free way that all drunks do, sprawled lazily across some fainting chair that was festooned in pink frills. He’d commandeered the seat upon the two men’s arrival to their summer abode in d’Italia. 

“Grazie,” Cliff rumbled in a bad accent. Rick hiccupped a laugh and collapsed next to him, buzzing with energy. They had both aced it on set today, Rick playing the heroic protagonist he’d dreamed of and Cliff defying gravity as he portrayed the love of his life’s most daring feats. The Italians had had to scrape their own jaws off the floor.

“Hey,” Rick nudged him, legs haphazardly crossing over Cliff’s. “You – you wanna hear a poem?” he asked fuzzily, licking his lips. Cliff watched his pink tongue traverse his red mouth and quietly moved to lay his head on the glass housing a brandy. The chill wasn’t enough to stop him from being a damn fool, but it was a reminder to try.

“Absolutely,” Cliff grinned. “I’d love to hear Rick fuckin’ Dalton recite poetry. Is it about meatballs?” (Earlier that day, Rick had waxed poetic about how if Italy didn’t have any goddamn spaghetti with meatballs, what else had they been lied to about?)

“Aw, fuck you – this country and its lies are horseshit,” Rick groused and swallowed a bracing mouthful of his martini before putting it back down. “Just another example of uh, of American ingen- ingennn…” Rick’s faced squashed into a squinty-eye confused look and Cliff was lost. “… _Ingenuity!_” Rick smiled.

Cliff looked impressed. He lifted his brandy in a toast. “Poetry.”

“Goddamn it, Cliff,” Rick laughed. “Now, I could do Shakespeare if I wanted.”

Cliff looked at him for a long, sobering moment. “I know,” he said softly. Rick looked at the ceiling and fidgeted, body burying itself beneath Cliff’s heavier limbs.

“Well,” he grumbled, “good. Okay, here it actually comes, you uncivilized ingrate.” Rick reached for the excessively decorated table to grab his drink. “When it comes to martinis, two I can have at the most,” Rick grinned and took a drink. “After three, I’m under the table. Af-after four, I’m under the host!”

Cliff laughed and moved his legs so Rick’s lower body was under his. “So it would seem!” he crowed, clinking his (first) brandy with Rick’s drink. They both cheered each other and downed their respective cocktails before slamming the glasses down.

Rick, face ruddy and happy with booze and success, sunk into the ridiculous pink couch. “God, this is so much better than I thought,” he sighed and led his whole body into a sinuous stretch, spine arching off the settee and legs undercutting Cliff’s smoothly. His feet had been close to dangerous territory to begin with and now—

Rick’s foot grazed Cliff’s infinitely interested dick. It had been chugging towards rock solid for an hour now and Cliff froze because there’s no way Rick missed that.

He hadn’t. “Oh - oh_ shit_, sorry—” Rick stuttered through a bad apology as he wiggled his foot and worsened the problem in Cliff’s pants. “Let me just—” and the foot went _under_ Cliff’s bottom and now his dick was wide awake because it was a party.

“_Rick,_” Cliff barked and seized his best friend’s wrist. Rick kept very still, looking at Cliff’s tense face with those damn big brown eyes. He audibly swallowed, licked his bottom lip, and slowly curled his toes around the hottest part of Cliff’s tortured body.

Cliff didn’t know what the fuck was going on – but as Rick applied pressure to his aching cock, an involuntary sound escaped and slapped him back to reality. Cliff shook Rick’s captive wrist in place of a question (because he really didn’t trust his voice at that moment).

The blush on Rick’s face was so deep it was coasting down his neck, but his expression… His face wore that mulish, determined look he got when everyone else had kicked him to the ground and he still got up again. His foot was rubbing now and if he didn’t stop Cliff was going to cream his pants for the first time in thirty years.

“This alright?” Rick whispered, the first tendrils of uncertainty betraying him.

Cliff leaned forward and kissed him in response. He’d been looking at those lips for two decades and the wait had been worth it.

Rick kissed nothing like his characters, who were domineering and full of themselves, hips cocked just like their pistols in their own warped sense of masculinity. Ricky’s lips went soft and pliant, the moue of his mouth pouty and fat and so, so sweet to suck on. Cliff drank in his friend like a dying man, big hands moving in to clutch him close. 

“C-cliff,” Rick trembled, foot still lodged between Cliff’s thighs and trapping his dick like the torturer he was. Cliff went in for another kiss and Rick gasped over their shared breaths, “Oh my – my _god_, Cliff—”

They separated with a wet sound; Cliff licked his lips to savor the flavor. “Rick,” he said quietly. “Rick, look at me.”

He did, albeit slowly. His lips were shiny with spit, red like cherries. His eyes were wet. Cliff pawed at his cheek, cradling, and met his eyes. “I need you to tell me if you want this.”

Rick exhaled in a wrecked way, pursing his red lips and nodding. Cliff’s hand got butted further onto Rick’s head and his soft hair tangled in his fingers. “Y-yeah, yeah buddy, I do.”

Cliff raised a brow a stroked the fine hairs on the back of Rick’s neck. Rick demonstrably shuddered. “Good, just checking. Because you’re four martinis in and…” Cliff abruptly rose to loom over Rick, who had sunk into the awful pink couch in surprise. “… are now under the host.”

Rick burst into drunken giggles, tears tracking down into the plush pillows. “Fuck you, man,” and he grabbed a fistful of Cliff’s wrinkled shirt to haul him down for another kiss.

They worked so well together, in all things. Even this – maybe even especially this. Cliff had wanted for so long, watching Rick’s movements on set to mimic them during spectacular feats, and got to apply all that studied knowledge in a practical setting. Got to learn all of Rick’s hidden curves and warm, soft places.

Rick was gasping for it, touch-starved and needy and so delightfully greedy. They’d migrated to the bed; Cliff had picked him up like a blushing bride, as he’d done for the nth time, but Ricky played along this time. He’d crowed, arms around Cliff’s neck, and had gasped a line from _Gone with the Wind_: “You, sir, are no gentleman,” and Rick had slapped his chest (going quiet with eyes wide at the solidness he’d found there). Cliff had smiled, smooth and slow, and had rumbled in Ricky’s red ear, “And you, miss, are no lady.”

After worshipping the perfect globes of Rick’s ass long enough to induce begging, Cliff eased his cock inside to the tune of Rick’s pleas to god. Cliff would have done anything to hear those sounds. As he bottomed out, he kissed the tears off of his best friend’s face – not because of pain, Cliff knew that expression, but because of overwhelming stimulation. “Shh,” he quieted, shifting inside the best place on earth and gripping Rick’s legs to spread him further; Rick writhed as he sunk deeper inside.

“_J-Jesus_, Cliff,” Ricky gasped, his beautiful hands coming to grip Cliff’s shoulders. Cliff grabbed one and kissed it as his hips swiveled, fat cockhead nudging something deep inside and Rick arched into the saffron pillows, keening, free hand coming to rest on Cliff’s cheek. Cliff couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to, couldn’t interrupt the sweet sounds coming from his best friend.

“You okay, baby?” he said, moving slowly in and out now, not unlike the tide, like breathing. The sounds of their coupling were wet and lewd and perfect. Rick was perfect.

“Y-yeah,” he gasped, legs lifting to cradle Cliff with his whole body. “Yeah, Cliff – I ain’t gonna, ain’t gonna break.”

Cliff leaned down to kiss the droplet of sweat from his nose, dragging his cock back out. “I know. You’re too damn strong for that.” The downstroke caused Rick’s eyes to flutter. “But I ain’t aiming to hurt you, not now or never.”

Rick’s face screwed up like it did when he was trying not to cry. Cliff hadn’t seen anything so beautiful in all his days as he fucked into that perfect body. They both had to recover from that truth, bodies moving in rhythm while their minds caught up.

“Cliff,” Rick’s chest heaved, shiny with the movement of their union. “I – _fuck_, Cliff, I think I love you.” Cliff’s orgasm ripped out of him, his mind a blank slate of bliss. He fell asleep in Rick’s arms and thought nothing could be better than this moment. 

Cliff woke up alone, in cold sheets. Rick hadn’t left a note, but he had an offering of a cup of coffee (hot) next to the bed. Cliff itched dried semen from his belly and drank it, wondering where Ricky was, missing Brandy, and wondering why it tasted more bitter than usual.

Francesca appeared two days later, during which Rick avoided him like the plague.

The wedding came about a month after that.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> (no, it's prolly not done but I hit 5 so I'm quitting for now)
> 
> 1\. April 29th, 1945: The U.S. Seventh Army's 45th Infantry Division liberated Dachau, the first concentration camp established by Germany's Nazi regime. A major Dachau subcamp was liberated the same day by the 42nd Rainbow Division – hence the rainbow decal on Cliff’s uniform. 
> 
> 2\. I dunno I get excited about rainbows y’all should see my glasses
> 
> 3\. So I know “hare Krishna” doesn’t mean “praise god,” but I bet Cliff doesn’t know that. Hare Krishnas got REAL popular during the hippie movement, go figure
> 
> 4\. The show Bounty Law doesn’t exist, but it’s not dissimilar to Gunsmoke, which was also a famous western TV program during the ‘50s. It was produced by Norman Macdonnell, hence the first meeting with him kickstarting Rick’s career.
> 
> 5\. … I don’t think Cliff’s wife had a name? (Only seen it the one time). So I named her Sherry ‘cause they’re all alcoholics. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ And the Jersey Boys had a song about her in 1962 so what the hell.
> 
> 6\. Spaghetti with meatballs isn’t an Italian thing, they think it’s weird; it’s an American-Italian immigrant thing.
> 
> 7\. Yeah the foot fetish thing surprised me, too, but. *Tips hat to Tarantino*
> 
> 8\. Gone with the Wind was kind of THE film (still is, depending on who you ask). I figured a starstruck dude like Rick (and Cliff because he’s Rick’s shadow) would’ve memorized the damn thing.


End file.
